The Swelling by Unknown

Author:Unknown
Language: eng
Format: epub

The Plague Jar

by Allen Mackey

“Damn!” barked Professor Henry Winwood after he had slammed his office door. “Idiots! Obscurantists!” He ranted for several minutes, as if to an unseen audience, stalking furiously around his desk, waving a thick sheaf of papers with one hand, until there was a brisk knock at the door.

“Yes, what is it!” the professor harshly called out.

The door opened hesitantly and a youthful face peered inside. “Er, Professor Winwood? I wanted to ask about... my paper...” The speaker paused as he read the professor’s features. “If this is a bad time—”

"No, no, come inside, Jamison.”

Trent Jamison, a student in the professor’s afternoon seminar on Middle Eastern cultures, had never seen the usually stolid instructor so upset before. Jamison felt almost ashamed to disturb Winwood; he felt that he had interrupted the man at a private moment. He then decided that his business could wait.

“Sorry about the disturbance, Dr. Winwood. It’s really not that important; I’ll come back some other time,” he said, embarrassed, edging back the way he had come.

“Nonsense, come in,” Winwood urged, more his normal self. He then realized the source of his student’s trepidation. “Oh, Jamison, never mind my anger of a moment ago,” he began by way of apology, though he was still fuming on the inside. “It’s just that those damn fools at the university press have rejected my latest manuscript, a work entitled The Plague Jar. ‘Too controversial,’ they said. ‘It violates the established theological doctrines,’ they whimpered. ‘The university would never live it down,’ they muttered.”

His initial purpose forgotten, Jamison entered the small office, firmly closed the door behind him, and seated himself on one of the pair of wooden chairs before the desk. He gave the office a cursory glance; he had been inside on only three other occasions. The room was unremarkable: tall gray metal filing cabinets stood against one wall, a small set of book shelves along the wall opposite, with a paper-littered desk in the middle of the floor space. Directly behind the professor’s chair was a large window shaded with Venetian blinds.

The professor sat behind the desk and thumped the computer- printed sheets on top of the paper landscape. He wearily closed his eyes and inhaled deeply for a moment.

“Are you okay, Dr. Winwood?” asked Jamison, genuinely concerned.

“I’ve been better,” replied Winwood, resting his elbows on the desk. He had taken off his glasses and began rubbing his temples; apparently he had a tension headache. “What did you need, Jamison?”

“Nothing, sir. Look, forget what I need. What do you need? I mean, is there anything that I can do for you?”

Professor Winwood glanced up with narrowed eyes, studying his pupil’s face as if he were gazing into the depths of Jamison’s soul. “Yes, you are a gifted student,” Winwood slowly began while massaging his weak chin, speaking more to himself than to Jamison. “Perhaps you would be able to understand... yes,” he concluded with gravity. With that Winwood resolutely pounded the desk with an open palm.

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